Sudulthurkh
by Nightchaser
Summary: 3 years after BOFA a heartsick and abandoned Bilbo comes across a Dwarf merchant selling jewellery in the local markets. It is then that he discovers that Kili now betrothed to Prince Fili has been captured by Saurons minions and is being held for ransom within Mordor itself. The price for his return? The Arkenstone and the head of Thorin. Thorin/Bilbo and Kili/Fili slash.
1. The Royal Seal of Durin

Banished … Exiled … Under pain of death.

It held a certain finality about it. A very presence which seemed to weigh down on him and made his chest feel as though it was going to cave in at any moment. It was this pain which had driven him onto the battlefield, had driven him to the madness of once again taking on the pale orc with nothing more than his 'letter opener' and his magic ring.

Bilbo found himself rubbing subconsciously at his right thigh, simply thinking about Azog and the battle seemed enough to cause him physical pain. Then again that seemed only fair since the pain in his very soul tortured him all day every day, a pain caused by the knowledge that the family of his soul was on the other side of Middle Earth and he would never see them again.

Never. By the maker it seemed like such a long time, especially since he often found himself gazing into the distance towards the East with the knowledge that his feet would not follow his mind in that direction.

He blinked back tears as he settled himself on his beloved bench in his mothers garden, looking out over Hobbiton. He knew that he should be content, happy even, to have returned to the Shire in, mostly, one piece and with enough riches to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Bilbo however had never been your normal Hobbit, even before going on his adventure he'd been thought of as odd for not wanting to settle down and raise a whole smial full of fauntlings.

Oh it wasn't even as though he had had a lack of pretty Hobbit lasses, or even lads, that had attempted to court him in the three years since he had returned. Having chests full of Dwarvish gold and a few rackish looking scars didn't hurt in making him seem more attractive. And sure it helped to puff up his ego quite nicely every time he was shyly handed a bouquet or wreath of flowers, but unfortunately his preference had changed considerably over the last few years.

Instead of the soft bodies and curly hair of the Hobbits, he now found himself drawn to harsh angles, broad shoulders, and beards. Not that there was much of any, or indeed any, of that in the Shire. Sometimes he considered traveling to the Blue Mountains just to look upon Dwarves again. Then he always remembered that Thorin Oakenshield was not just King Under the Mountain, but indeed the King in Ered Luin as well. His decree that Bilbo be killed on sight probably had extended out this far by now, it was the main reason why he tended to hide in Tookborough whenever he got word that Dwarves were in the Shire.

Ever since Erebor had been reclaimed there had been many caravans of settlers and merchants traveling back and forth along the Great East Road. In fact the mountain folk had made such an impression on the Hobbits, that the Thain was even considering trade with Erebor. Bilbo had done everything he could to be the voice of reason, informing his kin that the Shire surely didn't have anything that the richest of the Dwarf kingdoms could possibly need. Then however word had come that wool, textiles, dried fruit and meats, and herbs were required in Erebor. Apparently the soils of Ered Luin were rocky and frozen, and those around the newly rebuilt Dale had yet to yield anything productive.

More than likely due to the dragon.

Bilbo took a puff of his pipe and exhaled the smoke slowly. He could only hope that Thorin wouldn't punish all Hobbits for the actions of one. Then again the last Bilbo had known, the King hadn't exactly been in his right mind.

"G'morning Mister Baggins." He looked up and found himself smiling at Hamfast Gamgee, his friend and neighbour, standing at his gate.

"Good morning Hamfast," he answered. "And what a lovely morning it is."

"That it is," said Hamfast, leaning against the letterbox. "Spring is definitely in the air."

"And how is that charming wife of yours?"

Hamfast fairly beamed at that, his whole face lighting up with love and awe. "Fine, just fine."

Bilbo couldn't help but feel nothing but overwhelming joy for them, which was a nice change from the hollowness he usually felt. Hamfast's little wife Bell was petite even by Hobbit standards, whereas her husband was as portly and ruddy as any Shireling. When she had gotten pregnant there were many who were concerned for Bell's health. Even though she had made it thus far with very few issues, there was still fear that she would be unable to birth the child. It seemed that none of this had dampened Hamfast's enthusiasm, and Bilbo could only hope everything went well.

Then again if anybody knew what a difficult pregnancy and complicated birth was like it was Bilbo. He shook his head quickly, it did no good to dwell on such things. Looking back at Hamfast, he was horrified to see a knowing look full of pity on his round face. It was times like this that he regretted having gotten drunk at Daisy Proudfoot's birthday last autumn and confessed his greatest of secrets to his oldest of friends.

"Anyway I suppose you're wanting to be by her side in case anything is to happen," he said brightly, though he knew that his friend would see right through it.

"You're quite right of course," said Hamfast, giving the nearest fence post an affectionate pat. "Well I guess I'll be off Mister Baggins."

Bilbo nodded and took another puff of his pipe. "Good day Master Gamgee."

"Good day." Hamfast gave a quick nod of his head and then strolled off down the path whistling all the way.

Well, thought Bilbo, there goes that plan of not thinking about the past.

Two hours after his conversation with Hamfast, and after a hearty elevenses had been consumed, that Bilbo found himself at the markets. He desperately needed to restock his larder for it had been a long winter, and even though there was always mutton and pork to be bought, as well as preserved and pickled fruit and vegetables, it would be nice to have some variety for his supper.

Like every Hobbit who had ever existed, Bilbo found it difficult not to enjoy a good farmers market. There were stalls laden with fish, meat, and the freshest of vegetables, and even one full of baskets of mushrooms which made his mouth water.

One of the best things about the markets was that no one ignored him and there were no whispers about 'mad Baggins' behind his back. This was one of the few places that his wealth gained him respect, there were many willing to pretend to be friendly when it came to money.

Quickly filling his baskets with cheese, sausages, apples, and some lovely bacon from old Rufus the butcher, he soon found himself drifting over to the far end of the markets. Here were the stalls which sold such things as yarn, furniture, clothes, and blown glass.

"Ye interested in jewellery little one?" The voice which interrupted his inspection over a particularly beautiful broach, made his heart all but stop in his chest.

Looking up quickly he found himself staring at the bright red beard, and braided hair of a Dwarf, one that was close enough to Gloin and Oin in appearance that he was clearly a relative of some kind. Thankfully though Bilbo didn't recognize him as one of the Dwarves he had seen when Dain had marched to Erebor's aid.

"It is very lovely," he answered, hoping that the Dwarf wouldn't hear the quaver in his voice.

"Aye," said the Dwarf. "That would be Dwarvan craftsmanship."

Bilbo nodded, turning the broach over in his hand. It was quite a remarkable piece and would be perfect as a birthing gift for Bell.

"How much?" he asked.

"Depends on what you're willing to trade."

Digging into the pocket of his favourite maroon waistcoat, he quickly pulled out the small pouch of coins he had brought with him for purchases.

"Gold," he answered.

The shaggy eyebrows of the Dwarf nearly disappeared into his braids. Bilbo could completely understand his surprise, after all very few Hobbits carried gold.

"Gold?" he asked. "Good quality?"

Bilbo sighed, he had managed to hide his identity thus far from the many wandering merchants, but if he wanted this broach he had to risk being identified.

"The best by all accounts," he answered, removing one of the coins and handing it over.

There was a few seconds of silence and then. "This is Ereborian gold."

"Yes I know," said Bilbo, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

The Dwarf ran one large finger over the date stamped above the Durin royal crest on the gold. "It was made before the forges were re-fired. From before …" His voice trailed off.

"From before Smaug I would think." Bilbo finished.

"There are rumours," muttered the Dwarf. "Rumours that a Halfling helped retake Erebor, but they're nothing more than rumours."

"I can assure you Master Dwarf they are not," said Bilbo.

"But nobody speaks openly about it." The Dwarf gave him a hard look. "Its all whispers in the dark."

"No I suppose nobody would, not worth their heads I'd say," he said. "Now will you take it as payment for the broach?"

Yes," answered the Dwarf. "Aye I will at that."

"Good." Bilbo placed both his money poach and the broach back into his pocket. "Thank you."

"I suppose not being in contact with Erebor you haven't heard about the Crown Prince's betrothed?"

Bilbo felt his heart give a lurch. Fili was courting and engaged? It was not something he would ever have guessed would happen in all the time he had spent with Thorin's heir whilst they were on the road together.

"Fili is betrothed?" he whispered.

"Aye," answered the Dwarf. "And Prince Kili his beloved was abducted while on a hunting trip in Mirkwood. He is being held for ransom."

"And what is the price?" breathed Bilbo.

"The Arkenstone." Bilbo closed his eyes in despair. "And King Thorin himself."


	2. Lady of Carven Stone

Dis, daughter of Fris, fund that she had to lift up the skirt of her sapphire blue dress which had been made from only the finest of velvet, as she hurried up the stairs to the southern battlement. She knew exactly how she appeared to those which she raced past in her rush: out of breath, face flushed, and braids a mess around her face and shoulders, she looked more like a dirty urchin than a Princess of the line of Durin who was approaching her hundred and sixty-first birthday.

Not that she rightly cared about any of that this morning, for word had finally come from Gondor.

Her brother was standing upon the battlement, looking regal and strong as he stared down at whatever was down at the gates. To his left stood Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin, both dressed in thick furs as there was still a bite to the air up here. However it was Fili whom she felt her gaze drawn to. Her beloved first born son was pale and unnaturally thin, as though his very life force was being drained from his body, was stood on his Uncle and Kings right side.

Dis could still remember quite clearly the day that her beautiful boy, her golden haired son, had confessed his greatest secret to her. Barely out of childhood himself, Fili had clung to her sobbing as they sat beside the fire in their tiny house in Ered Luin, admitting that he loved his brother. She had thought it had been nothing more than adolescent fancy, after all Kili had already been turning heads despite his relatively young age.

However as the years went on it became clear that Fili's attraction hadn't waivered once towards the Dwarrowdams nor the craftsmen and warriors that were vying for the young Prince's attention. Sure there had been rumours of his dalliances, as was typical of a boy his age, but never anything serious had resulted from them. It was also around this time that it became clear, to Dis at least, that Fili's love wasn't quite as unrequited as he believed.

It was these memories of a better time that made Dis walk to her son and wrap her arm around his shoulders, propriety be damned.

"Amad," he whispered, voice sounding broken and weak.

"I know my son," She pressed a quick kiss to his temple. "I know."

He nodded his head in reply, and she saw his throat work as he attempted to swallow down his pain and sorrow. Beneath them, upon the road which led from the newly rebuilt Dale to the great gates of Erebor, was a small company of men on horseback. So this was what Gondor had sent to negotiate their aid in finding her youngest. Thorin seemed to have been carved from the very stone itself, so still that he could have easily have passed for a statue if it wasn't for his hair blowing in the wind. Never had she been more grateful for her stoic older brother, for the fact that even though he was easily a head shorter than most of these men, he was still an intimidating presence.

"King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror." The man at the lead of the company yelled up to the battlements. He appeared fairly young, a few short years into his adulthood, though it was always difficult to tell with men. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."

"Denethor sent his own son." She heard Balin mutter to the King. "They are taking this very seriously."

Thorin snorted at that. "It means he is taking our wealth very seriously."

"Whatever it takes to secure the safety of my son." Dis interjected, standing tall as their gazes moved to her.

"Aye." Thorin nodded, then he turned to yell down the battlements. "Open the gates!"

Within the hour Boromir and the guards, which had been sent with him on his long journey from Minas Tirith, were standing in the great throne room of Erebor.

Dis, and the rest of the council members, followed them across the causeway to where Thorin sat upon the giant throne made of stone, Fili sat to his right. Dis found herself having to blink back tears at the sight of the empty chair on the Kings other side, the chair in which Kili would usually have sat in making rude faces in order to make his brother laugh.

"Lord Boromir." Thorin stood from his throne, one heavy hand resting on his nephew's shoulder in support before he stepped down to meet their guests. "You are most welcome in Erebor."

Boromir, for his part, stepped forwards with his fist pressed to his heart as he gave a small bow in greeting.

"Your majesty," he said. "Erebor called to Gondor for aid."

"And Gondor answered," said Thorin.

Dis could completely understand her brother, and his advisors, surprise that these men were actually here and standing in the great hall. Men very rarely got involved in the affairs of the other races within Middle Earth, far to concerned with their own squabbles and wars. Ever since Sauron had burned the white tree of Minas Ithil, and waged war upon Gondor, the man of Minas Tirith had kept to themselves more than most.

"Your rider called for our help as one of your heirs has been abducted by the Dark Lord of Mordor," said Boromir.

Thorin nodded and moved to sit back on his throne, the many rings adorning his fingers clinking against the stone.

"This is true," he said, glancing first at Dis and then at Fili. "My nephew Kili was taken by Orcs three months past."

Boromir frowned. "And how do you know that he has not been killed?"

"We have been asked for a ransom," answered Balin, and Dis saw him catch the Kings eye. "Also we have not yet found his head outside of our gates."

Dis felt herself flinch at that, and very nearly lost her breakfast over the side of the causeway.

"Gondor stands beside Erebor and its young Prince," said Boromir. "No matter what his fate."

"And what is Lord Denethor's price?" demanded Thorin. "For such generosity."

At that Boromir swept his arm back so as to bring forwards another man. He was maybe a handful of years younger than Boromir, fair of face and with the kind of grace which one just did not find amongst Dwarves.

"This is my brother Faramir," he said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. "And our father sends him as a potential Consort for the King of Erebor."


	3. Thurkan

It was the first day of April when Gandalf the Grey rode from Imladris along the East road, heading towards the green lands to the distant West. He was riding fast, and knew that he would have to ride hard if he was to reach the Shire and then return before the white council met to discuss the recent concerns coming from the East.

By his side rode Arathorn, son of Arador, heir to the ancient King of men Isilduir. A frown was etched onto his handsome face, and he was radiating tension from his every pore. It would seem that even men could sense the darkness on the horizon, or maybe it was just Arathorn's own anxiety of coming face to face with the bane of his line. Either way it did his companion good to be cautious, after all he of all people knew of both the Ring's power and danger.

"And you are sure it is the One Ring in the Halflings possession?" Arathorn asked that evening when they had stopped to rest the horses and have something to eat. "There are many rings of power in this world."

Gandalf chewed on the end of his pipe and mused over his answer to that particular query. Arathorn was indeed correct, there were many rings of power in Middle Earth each of them with different abilities and purposes. However there was only one which radiated evil in this way, which made it feel as though a great storm was bearing down from the West.

Yes, the only answer was one which filled Gandalf with dread: Bilbo Baggins had somehow found the One Ring.

"I am certain," he answered, watching his companion slowly eating his rabbit stew.

"And where did you come by this knowledge?" asked Arathorn.

"Minas Tirith," answered Gandalf, gazing up at the stars which filled the clear spring sky. "I came by Isilduir's journal there, it describes the Ring and the power it has over its bearer."

He knew better than to mention the way Arathorn's face darkened at the mention of Minas Tirith, he could only imagine how difficult it must be to be a King without a Kingdom. He had seen it before.

"And Denethor let you into his private archives?" asked Arathorn, his voice harsh.

"Denethor's mind may be troubled, but even he has the ability to be distracted by the promise of gold."

Arathorn raised an eyebrow, and the pulled out his pipe. "Gold? Gondor has no mines for gold, all of its goods are gained through trade and barter."

"Which is why Denethor is willing to give up nearly anything to get his hands on more gold than you could ever imagine." Gandalf offered him a light which was gratefully accepted.

"How much gold are we talking?" asked Arathorn.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy brows, he had always been wary of those to interested in gold.

"More than could ever be counted," he answered. "The whole reason that we march upon Mordor now is because something has been taken and Gondor's aid has been secured. For a price."

"And what exactly has been taken that is worth that kind of gold?"

"His name is Kili, son Vili, and he is of Durin's line," muttered Gandalf around the stem of his pipe.

"A Dwarf?" hissed Arathorn, sitting forwards so as to catch Gandalf's eye in the firelight. "We do this for the sake of a Dwarf, and one of a cursed line at that?"

Gandalf felt his temper rising, of all the Dwarves that roamed upon and beneath Middle Earth, he had found young Kili one of the more likeable and genuine of his kind. The very idea that a man, of all things, would speak in such a way downplayed Kili's very worth and was nothing short of scandalous.

"Kili is very important to his people," he said, unable to keep the harsh edge from his voice. "And he is most important to me."

Arathorn slowly nodded his head.

"And exactly how much have the Dwarves offered Denethor for his safe return?"

"Gold is not what Denethor wants," answered Gandalf.

"I thought you said …" Began Arathorn, but he was quickly silenced by a wave of the wizard's hand.

"The Lord of Gondor wants Erebor itself," said Gandalf. "By offering the hand of his youngest son in marriage to Thorin Oakenshield."

No more was said that night, and eventually Gandalf dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

It was on their third day of traveling from Rivendell that they were attacked.

"A scouting party," said Arathorn, as his sword made quick work of the last Orc. "They brought enough warg's for a long journey."

Gandalf crouched beside the fallen body of one of the Orc's, prying the sword from its dead hand. It was a terrifyingly familiar blade.

"They hail from Mordor," he said, voice northing more than a harsh whisper.

"What are they doing this close to the Shire?" demanded Arathorn, cleaning black blood from his sword and re-sheathing it on his hip. "The servants of Mordor have never been out this far West, at least not in this age."

"Sauron's strength has returned," answered Gandalf. "He senses the Ring."

"The Halfling," said Arathorn.

Dropping the Orc's sword on the ground, Gandalf quickly got to his feet. The very thought of little Bilbo Baggins, despite his incredible bravery and passionate bearing, being hunted by Orcs was enough to make him very afraid indeed.

"We must ride swiftly," he said. "We need to get Bilbo into the safety of Rivendell."

Arathorn looked suitably concerned, and he mounted his horse with no further urging, then as one they made towards the Shire.


	4. King of Silver Fountains

"No." The voice of the King Beneath the Mountain echoed off of the stone walls of the meeting room in which they had retired to. "Absolutely not."

Faramir drummed his fingers against the granite table top nervously, glancing up at the figure his irritated brother cut amongst all these Dwarves.

"And why not?" demanded Boromir, towering over the Dwarven King who appeared neither concerned nor intimidated by him.

Then again, mused Faramir, the King had enough of a presence that he seemed to fill the very room despite the top of his head barely reaching Boromir's chin.

"There are many reasons," answered Thorin. "Not least of which is that he is but a child."

Faramir immediately took offence to that though he could see how the Dwarf, with silver streaking his long dark hair and shorn beard, could see him as a child.

"I am no child," he said, getting to his feet. "I am nineteen years old."

Those sharp blue eyes settled on him. "At nineteen Dwarrow babes are still on their mother's teat."

"I am not a Dwarf," he said quietly.

"That," said Thorin. "Is quite obvious."

"You don't understand how dire this situation is!" exclaimed Boromir, his voice cracking with emotion.

The Dwarves all looked at each other and then began bickering amongst themselves in Khuzdul. Finally after a few tense moments the shortest of them, an elderly Dwarf with a long white beard and lines creasing his face, who had a kindly look about him. Faramir though he'd heard the King call him Balin.

"Then why don't you tell us laddie?" he said, all but nudging Thorin out of the way so that they weren't in range of his impressive glower.

"If." Faramir had to swallow down the lump in his throat. "If I return to Gondor without at least a betrothal to the line of Durin, my father will have me executed for treason."

"Your own father?" whispered Balin, his face filled with horror and sadness.

Silence filled the room as this piece of information seemed to have shocked all those present.

"If we are to wed," said Thorin, holding his hand up for silence as some of the Dwarves in the back of the room began to complain. "It will be for political reasons alone, while in time there may be kindness, and affection, and friendship between us there will never be love. My heart belongs to another."

Faramir nodded and glanced up at his brother. "As does mine."

"There is no word for divorce in Khuzdul, because it is not something done by my people," said Throin, folding his arms across his barrel chest. "I may not be a young Dwarf anymore, but Mahal willing I may have yet another hundred years left. Now I am aware that your people are long lived in comparison to the men of the West, but that means you will be bound to this grumpy old Dwarf for the rest of your life."

"I understand," he whispered.

"I have no issue with you taking another lover." And here the King gave Boromir a look of understanding, and Faramir felt his heart soar when he realized that Thorin _knew_ and didn't seem to care. "As long as you are discreet."

"Yes of course," he answered.

With that Throin walked over to him. "Sit."

Faramir had a feeling that there was not a man nor Dwarrow alive who would deny such a request when spoken by Thorin Oakenshield. With a small smile at his now betrothed, he slid back into his seat, watching as the kings thick fingers nimbly unwound strands of his dark hair from a blue and silver bead, carefully unwinding the braid it held in place once it was free.

There was several gasps of surprise, and then Balin's voice. "Thorin?"

"Silence," ordered the King, and then much to Faramir's surprise a section of his hair by his left temple was separated and quickly braided. Thorin stepping back once the bead had been secured.

"It suits you," said Boromir, his fingers ghosting over the braid.

"You are now my betrothed and can send word to your father," said Thorin. "Also inform him that there will be no wedding until my nephew is back in Erebor where he belongs."

"Very well," said Boromir.

"Dwalin," said Thorin, and a terrifying looking Dwarf nearly as big as a man and covered in tattoos pushed away from the wall where he had been lounging, and came to stand beside his King.

"Aye," he said.

"Can you please show our guests to their rooms for they must be exhausted after their long journey, and get one of the servants to ready the courting room?" said Thorin, and the huge Dwarf quickly nodded.

"Come on then." He gestured for them to follow him towards the door. "This way."

Faramir had been brought up amongst the huge stone walls and battlements of Minas Tirith, but even he had to admit that Erebor was one of the biggest and incredibly beautiful places in Middle Earth. Fortunately Mister Dwalin seemed to be the strong and silent type, only talking in order to give directions, though he did level his impressive glare on the Dwarves they passed who tried to comment on Faramir's braid.

They eventually reached the rooms which the Dwarves had set up for them, and they were surprisingly nice. Two large interconnected rooms with high vaulted ceilings, a canopied bed, desk, dresser, and through a door at the far end of the room were bathing facilities.

"Thank you Master Dwalin," he said, turning back to the Dwarf and giving him a small smile.

"If anyone gives you any trouble," said Dwalin, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You come and tell me alright laddie?"

Faramir reached up and gripped the Dwarf's wrist, giving it a small squeeze hoping that it would convey how grateful he was that someone had his best interests at heart here.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you again Master Dwalin."

"No problem laddie." Dwalin gave Boromir a brief nod, and then left the room closing the door quietly after himself.

The moment they were alone, Boromir strode over and cupped his face in his large hands.

"It's the only way." Boromir pressed his forehead against Faramir's. "It was the only way to keep you alive."

"I know," he said, taking his brothers hand and kissing his fingers. "I will be fine here, the Dwarf King will treat me with kindness I am sure of it."

"I will come to you as often as I am able, and as soon as father is dead I will send for you."

"I love you," he whispered, craning his neck so as to press his lips to the jut of his brothers jaw.


	5. Of the Shire

Orcs. There were Orcs in the Shire, something that hadn't happened since the Fell Winter. The stories had come from a group of Tooks who had been traveling along the eastern border of the Shire, they had only just been able to escape with their lives. Hobbiton was all but abandoned, nobody daring to leave their smials, and when they did they went in large groups clutching anything they could get their little hands on as a weapon. Bilbo spent most of his days sat in his study, one hand on Sting while the other one held whatever book he happened to be reading at the time, and trying to desperately not think about the last time he had been anticipating Orcs to storm the door down. He knew the other Hobbits were waiting for him to do something, for once 'mad Baggins' and his adventure may actually be useful for once.

Bilbo, however, was far too afraid to even leave Bag End lest he came into contact with these foul beasts that haunted his dreams. Instead he waited in his cosy smial for word that someone had finally been killed, or that a Hobbit hole had finally been ransacked.

And then one night, three weeks after the Tooks had raised the alarm, he heard something which made his blood run cold and the hair to stand up on the nape of his neck. A warg howl, one that was far closer than he could ever be comfortable with. Breathing hard he tightened his grip on Sting, knuckles turning white as he crept towards the window and peered outside.

The night was unusually dark, no moon high in the sky to illuminate the winding paths and little gardens of Hobbiton. There was the occasional round window lit by candles, but for the most part the Hobbits were probably cowering in the dark and hoping that they made it through til dawn, Bilbo hadn't had the heart to tell them that the danger did not disappear come morning.

"You're just spooking yourself Bilbo Baggins," he muttered, lowering Sting and turning away from the window.

At that moment there was a great crash from the back of the smial, in the direction of the bedrooms, and Bilbo knew that they had broken in through the East facing window. Immediately he felt numb, the prospect of being cut down in his own home was a very different feeling than marching into battle or even taken on giant spiders.

Oh Thorin, he thought even as he prepared to fight, I am so very very sorry.

The first Orc came ambling down the hallway, a smirk on its face as it contemplated fighting this soft little creature in its hole in the hill. Clearly it hadn't expected a small blue glowing blade to slice open its stomach, a look of surprise on its face as it fell to the floor in a puddle of black blood. Orcs two and three went in a similar manner, however Bilbo soon found himself surrounded by the vile creatures and he knew that there was no way out of this situation.

"Where is the ring?" demanded the largest of the Orcs, as it slowly circled him in his own sitting room.

So that's what this was all about, they were after his magic ring. A magic ring which was, as always, in the left hand pocket of his waistcoat, and he had to force himself not to reach for it. Nothing was going to save him this time, not even invisibility, plus he had learned on the battlefield of Erebor that Orcs could smell him whether he was wearing his ring or not.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, lifting up his chin and staring the Orc straight in the eye.

"Do not lie to me Halfling," it hissed. "I have no problems in removing parts of you until you tell me where to find the ring."

"No," answered Bilbo, attempting to be brave despite the waver in his voice.

Just as the Orc raised his sword there was a knock on the door and almost as one the Orcs turned to face the door, seeing the distraction as good a time as any to make his escape. Quickly sheathing his sword, he did a quick calculation of distance and then sprinted between to of the Orcs, vaulted onto his desk and then did a rolling jump through the window. Pain exploded through his as he crashed through the glass, shards of the blasted stuff piercing most of his body, and he let out a cry as he landed head first into a rhododendron bush. His sudden appearance must have shocked the two men standing at his door for they both just stared at him, hands halfway to the hilt of their swords. It was when he noticed that one of them was carrying a tall staff and wearing a pointy hat that he felt a rush of relief come over him.

"Gandalf," he said, clambering to his feet and pointing at the glowing sword in his hand. "Orcs."

The other man turned back to the door. "Is it locked?"

"Yes," answered Bilbo, suddenly there was the sound of the heavy metal locks being pulled back and the door swung open. "No."

It didn't take very long at all for Gandalf and the man with him to dispose of the remaining Orcs, and once they were done Gandalf gave him a quick hug. "Are you injured?"

"No not at all," he answered. "Just a bit sore and bruised but nothing that won't heal."

"Good." Gandalf pulled back and looked him in the eye. "Do you know what they were here for?"

"They said they were after a ring," he said. "Though I don't know what …"

"Do not lie to me Bilbo Baggins." Gandalf's voice had a dark and booming quality, very much like that night in his smial when the Dwarves had been arguing about Bilbo's ability to be a burglar. "I am trying to help you."

Bilbo fidgeted with the hem of his waistcoat, something in him reluctant to tell Gandalf his secret, though he did jump when another warg howl pierced the air.

"We need to leave this place," said the man, his sword still drawn and a tight look on his face,

"Bilbo?" Gandalf's voice brokered no argument.

With a deep sigh, Bilbo slowly pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out to his friend.

However the moment the Wizard reached out for the small band of gold, he quickly snatched his hand back and scrambled to his feet a look of shocked horror on his wizened face. "Put it back in your pocket. We must now ride for Rivendell."

With that he strode towards two horses that were tied up against his garden fence, the man coming forwards to place his hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

"Come Master Hobbit," he said, gently leading him in the same direction as Gandalf.

"But my home," said Bilbo, glancing back at where four dead Orcs were laying in the doorway.

"Is lost to us," answered the man. "Now come if your life means anything to you."


	6. Prince of the Woodland Realm

There was a Dwarf in Mirkwood. Not three months ago this wouldn't have been unusual, yet since Prince Kili had been captured by Orcs from between these trees, the sons of Erebor had not set foot in the forest. Legolas didn't like to admit it, but he missed the children of Mahal traipsing along the paths singing their funny songs and laughing at their frankly dirty jokes, which was why he had decided to follow this particular one as it travelled south.

He seemed rather tall for a Dwarf, with a long red beard and shock of red hair which was separated into thick sections secured by rings of gold. A large axe, taller than the Dwarf himself, was held in one hand whilst the other was tugging on one of the braids in his beard. It was clear that despite his head which was raised high and the determined look upon his surprisingly fair face, this particular Dwarf was anxious whether about the journey ahead or what he was leaving behind Legolas was not sure. Either way he found that he could not bear to see the stout creature so disturbed, brown eyes darting both around the forest surrounding him, as well as back towards the mountain he seemed to be fleeing from.

His legs seemed to move without any conscious thought, and before Legolas really knew what was happening he had leapt from tree to tree until he was in front of the Dwarf, dropping gracefully to the road before him. The little ones reflexes much have been remarkably swift for Legolas had an axe blade against his throat before he could respond in kind.

"Just what do ye think you're doin'?" The Dwarves voice was thickly accented, more so than a lot of his kin which meant that he had been brought up in the Blue Mountains rather than in Erebor.

"I was going to ask the same of you Master Dwarf," answered Legolas, taking a weary step back and away from the axe which still hadn't been lowered. "It has been quite some time since I've seen one of your people in these woods."

"I be heading South," answered the Dwarf, throwing his axe over his shoulder. "To Mordor."

Legolas started at that.

"You go to save your Prince then?" he asked. "I would have thought the King Under the Mountain would have sent more than one Dwarf, no matter how brave he may be."

"King Thorin is my kinsman," answered the Dwarf, glancing back in the direction of Erebor. "And he doesn't know where I'm going."

Well that certainly explained the nervous fidgeting and the way he kept glancing behind him as if he expected something to attack him from the trees, he was waiting for his kinsman to realize that he had left and send someone out to collect him.

"So you travel to the realm of the Dark Lord with neither your King's knowledge nor blessing?" mused Legolas. "You will surely not survive this quest, it is foolish."

"What is foolish you tree-shagging pointy ear, is sitting in that mountain waitin' for Prince Kili to die."

Legolas knew that the Dwarf had been trying to insult him, but said in that accent it did nothing but make him grin in amusement. "And what is your name little one?"

"Little!" exclaimed the Dwarf. "I'll give you little you …"

"Name Master Dwarf if you will." Legolas interrupted the oncoming tirade.

"Gimli," came the answer. "Gimli son of Gloin."

"Very well Gimli son of Gloin," he said, letting his hand rest on one nicely broad shoulder. "I am Legolas Greenleaf, and if you are planning to enter Mordor in search of your kinsman you are going to need a guide."


	7. The Courting Room

Boromir left the next morning, and even though Faramir wanted nothing more than to cling to his older brother and beg him not to go he knew that it would be pointless. It was Boromir alone that had so far managed to stop Gondor completely falling into ruin under the hand of an insane Steward, and an extended absence may possibly lead their people to that end. So he wrapped himself around the bulkier form of his brother in the early hours of the morning, memorizing the feel of his skin and his smell to help get him through the long nights that were to come.

It had nearly killed him to watch Boromir ride away from Erebor, and then when his bay stallion was finally out of sight, to turn back to the huge Dwarven fortress and try to make the best of his situation. Reaching up he ran his fingers along the braid which Thorin had placed in his hair, a symbol that he now belonged to another though his heart ached for someone else. Though if what the Dwarf King had said was the truth he wasn't the only one who suffered in this way.

"Oh there you are." The voice was feminine and came from further down the battlement, causing Faramir to turn and look in that direction.

Lady Dis, sister of King Thorin, was striding towards him with her skirts swirling around her ankles. She looked so much like her brother that it was frankly terrifying, and if she hadn't been wearing a dress and have a much slimmer frame it would be easy to confuse the two.

"My Lady." He gave a short bow, only to find himself forced to stand upright as she pushed on his shoulders.

"If you are to be Consort to the King of Erebor you need to remember that you don't bow to anyone," she said, patting him gently on the cheek. "Now speaking of my brother he asked me to come and get you to show you to the courting room."

With that she turned and walked down the stairs leading from the battlements into the main gallery of the city, and he had to hurry to catch up with her.

"What exactly is a courting room?" he asked, his longer legs thankfully making it relatively easy to keep up with her faster pace.

"It is the room that you will live in whilst you and Thorin are courting," answered Dis, gesturing at him over her shoulder. "When you are wed you will move into the Consort's apartments."

"Oh," said Faramir, following her as she led him down the corridor into the Royal wing of Erebor. "It all seems very complicated."

Dis stopped outside a pair of huge oak doors set into an enormous stone archway, Faramir didn't even need to ask whose room this was. During the past two days of his betrothal he hadn't really thought about what he had gotten himself into. It was behind these doors that he was expected to spend his wedding night, in the bed of Thorin Oakenshield. If Dwarves were anything like the men of Gondor he would even be expected to spend many a night before the wedding beneath the King.

It wasn't that Faramir was against sharing a bed with his betrothed, he was handsome enough for a Dwarf and since he was nearly three times Faramir's age he could probably teach him a few things. However he had only been with Boromir, and the very idea of anyone else touching him so intimately filled him with dread.

"You have no reason to fear my brother," said Dis, her slim yet calloused hand resting on his elbow. "He will not force himself on you, he knows he has me to answer to if he so much as looks at you the wrong way."

"Thank you." He covered her hand with his own.

She smiled at him.

"Those the Consort's apartments," she said, nodding in the direction of an equally large set of doors further down the corridor. "And these are the new courting rooms."

She walked across the corridor and pressed her hand against a smaller door.

"The new courting rooms?" he asked. "What happened to the old courting rooms?"

Dis's face fell and she looked very sad and tired all of a sudden.

"My brother had them made up many years ago, and now he insists on them being kept that way."

Oh that seemed so incredibly tragic, this great majestic King pining away for his long lost love. It was romantic, the kind of romance that Faramir had read about in the library of Minas Tirith.

"He still has hope then?" he asked.

"His heart does," she answered. "Even though his head knows its useless."

"Are they dead then?" he questioned. "Thorin's lover?"

"No," answered Dis. "Well not as far as we know anyway. No he had to leave because …"

"Because I treated him most heinously." Thorin's voice echoed down the corridor, and they both turned to face him.

"I don't believe that my Lord," said Faramir. "You have shown nothing but kindness to my kinsmen and I."

"I was not myself," said Thorin, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off the stone walls as he approached them. "I called him traitor, gravely hurt him both in body and spirit, and threatened to have him killed should he return."

Faramir pressed his hand against his mouth in shock. "Yet you love him?"

Thorin nodded. "Very much so."

"Dwarves clearly do things differently to us," he said.

"Not as differently as you would think," said Dis.

"Please." Thorin placed a hand on the small of his back, and guided him towards the door. "This is where you will be staying."

Faramir hesitated on the threshold before pushing the door open when Thorin gave him another nod. The room was even more extravagant than his father's rooms back in Minas Tirith, and he found it hard to believe that the Dwarves had managed to get this together in two days.

There was a foyar just beyond the doorway, with a small hearth, three sofa's, and a round table in the corner. Beautiful tapestries lined the walls, and upon closer inspection he saw that they were maps of Middle Earth and scenes from Gondor.

"My Grandfather had these made back in the days when Erebor traded with many other cities, they were hung in the ambassadors rooms which survived the fire. I thought you might like to have something which reminded you of home." Thorin had stepped into the room beside him, and Faramir found himself blinking back tears as he looked at his betrothed. "I know what it is like to be homesick."

"Thank you," whispered Faramir. "You didn't need to do all of this."

Thorin's forehead creased in surprise at this. "You are my betrothed, one day will be my consort and rule Erebor at my side. This is the very least that could be done in the limited time we had, over the course of the next few weeks you will be draped in the all the jewels and finery offered by my Kingdom."

"My Lord…" Faramir couldn't keep the waiver from his voice, shocked at the kindness shown him.

"Thorin," answered the King, stepping close and brushing a tear from Faramir's cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. "We will be spending many years together and I will have you call me by my name, then when time and age has made us comfortable with each other I shall let you call me by the name of my soul."


	8. Nazgul

Before thirteen Dwarves had turned up on his front doorstep Bilbo had never so much as patted a pony let alone ridden one. His first time on the back of old Myrtle had been a terrifying experience, complete with allergies and the jeering of the company as he had desperately tried to stay on the creature. However that was nothing like the bone jarring fear that came with sitting before Gandalf on his large grey horse, clinging to the wizard's arms and trying desperately not to scream the whole way to Rivendell.

The man riding at their side, he had learned that his name was Arathorn, was an impressive looking man. He was slender but clearly a great fighter if the way he took down the Orcs at Bag End was an indicator, with shoulder length dark hair and shrewd eyes, Bilbo liked him at once.

"Gandalf," yelled Arathorn, his voice only just reaching them over the wind and the sound of hooves on the ground. "The Halfling doesn't look well."

"Bilbo just isn't accustomed to being on the back of a horse is all." Bilbo heard Gandalf answer.

"I thought you said he had ridden before," said Arathorn.

"On a pony," said Bilbo.

"What?" yelled Arathorn, moving his horse closer to them.

"I said I have only ridden a pony!" Bilbo yelled back, and was shocked when the man suddenly started laughing.

"You are certainly not what I expected to find in the Shire," he laughed, urging his horse to gallop ahead.

"No," whispered Bilbo after him. "You're not the first to say that about me."

They stopped to rest for the night beneath a copse of elms where a little spring trickled through and allowed the horses some water. Arathorn lit a small fire, and before long there was a pot of stew bubbling happily over the flame while Gandalf sat back and puffed on his pipe. It brought back memories of the days on the road with the company of Thorin Oakenshield, where a bunch of rowdy Dwarves would sing songs and tell stories well into the night.

Bilbo couldn't have been asleep for very long when Gandalf shook him awake, his face lit only by moonlight and it was then that he realized that the fire had been extinguished.

"What's going on?" he asked, as Gandalf dragged him to his feet.

"Pack up," he hissed. "We're being hunted."

With his heart thudding against his ribs, Bilbo quickly packed his bed roll and blanket just before he was hefted onto the back of Gandalf's horse, one of the wizard's strong arms wrapping securely round his waist.

It was then that a high pitched scream pierced the silence and made goose bumps raise on Bilbo's skin.

"Nazgul!" yelled Gandalf, tightening his hold on Bilbo. "Ride Arathorn, we make for Rivendell post haste."

Another shriek rose into the air, and as one Arathorn and Gandalf kicked their horses into a gallop, Bilbo clinging to the saddle desperately.

"What do they want?" yelled Bilbo, glancing behind them as the burst from the trees and onto the plateau that led to Rivendell.

"You and your ring," answered Gandalf. "You carry a great evil with you Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo's heart seemed to freeze as with another scream the Nazgul upon its black war horse galloped out of the copse behind them. To his right Bilbo watched as Arathorn drew his sword.

"Arathorn," called Gandalf. "You can not fight it."

"No," answered Arathorn. "But I can try."

The Nazgul was bearing down on them, its mount faster than their ones. Gandalf's horse was however quick to change its path and evade its pursuer. It was just as Arathorn was turning his horse around, sword raised in defiance, that a horn sounded.

"That is no Elvish horn," said Arathorn.

It was ass if the sound of the horn had worried the Nazgul for it had pulled its horse to a stop.

"No that is a Gondor horn," answered Gandalf.

There was the sound of fast moving hooves behind them, causing Gandalf to wheel his horse around to face the approaching riders. Men in heavy armour were riding fast towards them, they were numbered about fifty and made for a terrifying sight to behold. Three of them were carrying black banners with a white tree upon them.

With a final screech the Nazgul turned and galloped back into the trees, followed by several of the men.

"Men of Gondor," said Arathorn, dismounting and approaching the man at the head of the group. "Your time was impeccable."

Bilbo watched as the man removed his helmet, revealing a handsome face with brown hair which fell to his chin and a short cropped beard.

"Boromir," said Gandalf. "What are you doing this far West?"

Boromir gave the muscular neck of his horse a fond pat. "We have business with Lord Elrond."

"That is something we have in common," said Gandalf. "How did you know we were in danger?"

"We passed through Rohan on the our way to Rivendell and heard talk of a dark rider making for the Shire," answered Boromir. "We were coming to see what had been left of the Halflings."

With that he gave Bilbo a nod of his head.

"The Shire," gasped Bilbo, looking up at Gandalf. "We have to go back!"

"Oh I don't think so my friend," answered the wizard. "Your kin will be quite safe, we however are not."

"Come," said Boromir, gesturing for them to enter his ranks as they turned back towards Rivendell. "Where there is one Nazgul there are bound to be more."


	9. Nathith

Rivendell. Home of Lord Elrond and his elves, was just as beautiful on this spring afternoon as it had been the first time Bilbo had laid eyes upon it all those years ago. The last time he had visited this valley had been during the last summer, sneaking out of the Shire and trekking to the last homely home. As usual when he looked down on Rivendell he felt both fear and excitement settle in his stomach, and he had to work at not losing his meagre lunch on the thin path which led down to the valley.

Gandalf, for once, was silent and Bilbo was thankful for his quiet support. He was one of the very few who understood what had happened here in the birthing rooms of the Elves, had witnessed the Hobbit at his most vulnerable and clutching at the last threads of life. The fear was beginning to take control, making a cold sweat cover his skin and his hands to shake. Sometimes it could take as long as a week until Bilbo was ready to leave the room which Elrond had set aside for him, and venture into the heart of Rivendell. He knew however that he would not be able to hide himself away this time.

"Have strength Bilbo," whispered Gandalf.

Twisting his fingers into the long grey sleeves of Gandalf's cloak, Bilbo nodded and started with the breathing exercises Elrond had taught him to help with the overwhelming sense of panic which would overcome him from time to time. He had nothing to fear here, he knew that, what was past was past and could not hurt him now. Everyone had come through that traumatic time alive, if worst for wear, and he knew that he had to move on from it though he found it difficult.

"Mithrandir." They had reached the main concourse of Rivendell, and Elrond was climbing down the stairs to meet them. "And the Royal Guard of Gondor if my eyes do not deceive me."

"They do not," answered Gandalf.

"Master Baggins." Elrond helped him dismount the horse, and then rested one large hand on his shoulder whilst Gandalf climbed down from his mount. "It is good to see you again my friend."

"And you Lord Elrond," he answered, covering that large hand with his own.

"So what can I do for you and your guard?" asked Elrond, directing his question to Gandalf.

"I know not what the men of Gondor have come to discuss," said Gandalf. "But I come to you about the Ring of Power and Mordor."

"We come to speak of Mordor also," said Boromir, and Bilbo watched as he jumped gracefully down from his horse.

"Very well," said Elrond, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder gently before stepping away and gesturing for Gandalf and Boromir to follow him into Rivendell.

The main meeting room of Rivendell was in one of the towers, exposed to the elements and with the most beautiful views of the valley. There was a white round table in the centre of the room with tall chairs, and Bilbo watched as Gandalf and Boromir sat down before taking a seat across from Lord Elrond.

"Now what word from Gondor?" asked Elrond.

Boromir sat forwards and rested his elbows on the table, tapping his index fingers against his lower lip.

"My father, Lord Denethor, wishes to march on Mordor," he said.

"He what?" demanded Gandalf, slamming one hand on the table. "Has he lost what is left of his mind?"

He watched as Boromir flinched at this. "Probably. He has found a way to send my younger brother away and secure my right to rule, and he is determined to see the contract through."

"And just who has contracted him to march upon Mordor?" asked Elrond. "And for what reason."

"Dwarves," answered Boromir.

Elrond raised one elegant eyebrow. "Dwarves have contracted Gondor to march on Mordor? Unless gold has been discovered in the Ered Lithui I can't imagine that Dwarves would have anything to do with Mordor."

"Its about Kili isn't it?" asked Bilbo. "That's why they want to go into Mordor."

Boromir nodded his head. "The Halfling is correct. Prince Kili was taken from Mirkwood not three months past by Orcs of Mordor, they have requested a ransom but I do not know what it is."

"It's the one thing that Thorin would never give up," answered Bilbo, glancing up at Gandalf. "The Arkenstone."

Gandalf's face darkened and he quickly looked at Elrond. "And so he shouldn't, the Arkenstone would be too dangerous in the hands of Sauron."

That seemed odd to Bilbo, he had believed the Arkenstone to just be a damned rock, a pretty one sure but still just a rock.

"It's just a rock," he said, only to frown when Gandalf shook his head.

"It is not just a rock Bilbo," he said. "Not a rock at all."

"And just how much of his treasury has Thorin parted with to have his Nephew returned?" asked Elrond.

"None," answered Boromir. "Even though he was willing to give it all, my father wanted something a bit more … permanent."

"Ah," said Elrond quietly. "I got word not two days past that King Thorin was betrothed to a man of all things."

At this words Bilbo felt his heart drop down into his stomach, his vision going blurry, and his breath coming in harsh pants. Thorin engaged? Had he been that easy to forget, so easy to replace even though Bilbo had been pining away in the Shire and never giving another so much as a second glance?

"Faramir," Boromir was saying. "My brother."

"Thorin is a fool," said Gandalf. "But an honourable one. I suppose Faramir would have been executed should he return to Gondor?"

Bilbo found he could no longer sit there while those around the table talked about Thorin's engagement, even in the case of Gandalf encouraging it. No it was all too much.

He got to his feet, his chair scraping on the ground as he pushed it back. "Please, excuse me."

With that he scurried from the meeting room and to his own rooms, determined to lock himself in and cry the tears that he had been unable to find all those years ago.

Boromir watched the Halfling leave as though he had another Nazgul behind him, and then took in the pitying looks of Gandalf and Lord Elrond.

"What?" he asked. "What is going on here?"

Elrond got gracefully to his feet at that, and gestured for Boromir to follow him.

"We shall discuss this ring later this evening Mithrandir," he said. "The White Council are due to arrive by the morrow."

"Very well," answered Gandalf, also standing up. "I will go and make sure that Bilbo is alright."

"Boromir," said Elrond, holding out his arm. "Please follow me."

Together they walked through the halls of Rivendell, with Elrond nodding in greeting at the elves they passed on the way through. Soon they came to the central courtyard which was a quadrangle of grass surrounded by trees and flowers. Here played two children, a boy of about eleven with shoulder length black hair and an easy smile, and an elvish girl with long dark hair and haunting grey eyes. The man Arathorn was sat on a bench smoking a pipe and laughing whenever the girl smacked the boy over the head with her wooden sword.

"He is growing strong," said Arathorn, moving aside so that Boromir could sit beside him.

"Your son is going to be a great warrior," said Elrond.

"Yes he is," said Arathorn. "Though I think Arwen will surpass him." He pointed towards the girl with his pipe. "Must be the Dwarvish blood in her."

Boromir started at that and stared first at Arathorn and then Elrond. "She's a Dwarrow? But she looks like an Elf."

"Arwen there is the daughter of King Thorin the second," said Elrond.

"Thorin bred with an Elf?" demanded Boromir.

The look on Elrond's face was one of pure disgust. "No. Arwen is the product of a Dwarf and a Hobbit, it just so happens that she looks like an Elf. Her pointed ears, lack of beard, fairness of face, and delicate sensibilities come from her Hobbit kin. Whilst her fighting spirit, stature, and hair come from Thorin."

"Does he know?" asked Boromir.

Elrond shook his head. "Nor shall he ever."


	10. On a Bed of Warg Pelts

Faramir collapsed against the furs which were piled on Thorin's bed all of which, disturbingly, seemed to be Warg pelts. Also now that he was laying directly on top of them he could see that many of them were covered in holes made by arrows or axes.

"Did you have someone collect every Warg on the battlefield and turn them into your bedding?" he mused, pushing strands of his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"Something like that," answered Thorin, the strong hands grasping his hips tightened and there was a slight sting of pain and then the Dwarf King flopped onto his back beside him, his chest heaving for breath. "I'm too old for this."

"Nonsense," said Faramir, propping himself up on his elbow and placing a hand on Thorin's hairy chest. He had been pleasantly surprised when Thorin had removed his ever present armour and tunic to reveal that he was thick with pure muscle rather than fat, and that all that muscle seemed to be covered with a veritable pelt of dark body hair. "You did valiantly."

Thorin huffed in response. "You are far too young and I am far too old."

Faramir wound a strand of the Dwarf's chest hair around his finger and smiled when one blue eye was cracked open to look at him. "Tell me about him."

"What?" asked Thorin.

"Your beloved," he answered. "You've met mine, I feel at a disadvantage."

Those thick brows furrowed and Faramir found himself being glared at, he didn't falter though and returned it with a smile.

"He's very brave," he answered with a deep sigh.

"Well he would have to be," said Faramir, giving a chuckle when Thorin batted at him. "Go on."

"He's brave despite having lived a sheltered and comfortable life." Thorin's fingers curled around the braid in Faramir's hair and dragged him down to lie against his chest. "So very unlike a Dwarrow. He's well read and an excellent cook."

"I would very much like to meet him," said Faramir.

Thick fingers carded through his hair. "I wish you could meet him."

"Maybe one day I will," he answered, suddenly there was a loud tapping noise from the only window in the King's apartments. "What's that?"

Thorin gave a deep groan and those fingers tightened in his hair almost possessively, before relaxing and the Dwarf slid out of the bed and walked towards the window as bare as the day he was born. He pulled open the window and there sat a huge black raven, a roll of parchment attached to its leg which it stuck out for Thorin to untie the message.

"Thank you," he said, taking a piece of dried meat from a container on the windowsill and giving it to the raven.

Faramir watched as he placed the parchment on his desk, and then disappeared into his dressing room to return wearing a clean tunic. He slowly unrolled the parchment and began reading it.

"And what of your nephew? The one that all this is in aid of?" he asked.

"He reminds me …" Thorin looked up from the parchment with a stricken look on his face. "He reminds me of you actually."

Faramir couldn't help but laugh at that. "Then he must be a very special Dwarf indeed."

"Yes," answered Thorin, returning to his parchment. "And let us never talk about that again."

"Should I return to my rooms?" he asked, preparing to get of the bed and leave the King in peace.

"No," answered Thorin, shaking his head. "I need to meet with Balin immediately." He strode over to where Faramir was reclining against the pillows and pressed a kiss to his lips which Faramir deepened into a languid affair which caused a slow curl of arousal in the pit of his stomach. "You sleep here tonight."

Faramir was half tempted to grab him by the beard and drag him back into bed, there was something erotic about knowing that it wasn't just Boromir that desired him, even if it was only his body that Thorin found attractive. "You just like the idea of me naked in your bed."

The Dwarf hummed at him, kissed his temple and then walked from the room, leaving Faramir to snuggled beneath the Warg pelts and let his body succumb to the aches and exhaustion that comes after a passionate encounter.

He awoke many hours later to find that Thorin had brought Balin with him, and Faramir quickly made sure that all of his vital parts were covered by the bedding and his face burnt with embarrassment.

"Didn't waste any time did you laddie?" asked Balin, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked at his King.

"Balin …" began Thorin.

"No need to explain," said Balin, patting him on the arm. "He is rather fair for a human that is, at least they can grow beards."

Faramir immediately placed his hand against his chin and felt the prickliness of a few days beard growth, he really needed to go to Dale and find something to shave with.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, sitting up against the pillows.

Balin left his Kings side and moved to sit beside him on the bed. "How do you fancy speaking for Erebor at a delegation in Rivendell?"

"Me?" he asked, looking from one Dwarf to the other in surprise. "But I have only been here a fortnight, I know very little of this Kingdom nor its people."

"Balin will be going with you," said Thorin. "Though I need someone who can be around the Elves without wanting to throw all of them into the river. I also need someone who can speak for us with Gondor."

"Gondor?" he asked. "Gondor are sending representatives?"

"Yes of course," said Thorin. "It is a meeting about Mordor and how that threat should be faced, and how my sister-son shall be returned to his betrothed. Denethor has sent his eldest to speak for him."

It was at that moment he understood exactly what Thorin was asking and offering.

"Boromir," he said. "I'll see Boromir again?"

Balin nodded and a smile broke out on his withered face. "It's a three week ride if we go through the gap of Rohan and ride swiftly, so we must leave as soon as possible."

"I am sending Dwalin and some of the Guard with you," said Thorin. "I will not see either of you injured or captured. Now go and pack."


	11. The Mines of Mordor

Vili son of Peli, had been a 'guest' of Mordor for nearly seventy-eight years now. He had been taken from the gates of Moria after the battle of Azanulbizar with roughly three hundred other Dwarves, and marched to Nargun whilst his father and brother-in-law were trying to rally what was left of their armies.

They had been forced to work in the iron mines in the Shadow Mountains ever since, their ranks swelling with new Dwarrows that had been captured and even those born in the dark. Held by the point of a sword or the crack of a whip, they dug deep and mined iron, tin, and copper to be used in the weapons and armour of the Orcs. Over the years there had been several rebellions and escape attempts though none had been successful and had ended in much pain and suffering for all.

The newest arrival to the mines was a young Dwarrow, so young in fact that he only had a scruff of a beard and only two braids in his long dark hair. One of the braids was thick and fell behind his ear to be held securely by a large silver clasp, a braid of war. The other was slimmer and fell from his left temple with a bright blue bead at the end, a betrothal braid and the boy was bound to a member of his family if the placement was anything to go on. He was attractive in a youthful kind of way, as lithe as an elf and with an easy smile despite their situation. Whenever anyone asked his name and lineage he would just shake his head, dark eyes flicking to the Orcs holding them captive, and it didn't take long for Vili to realize that he didn't want those vile beasts to know his identity.

Someone important then, mused Vili, could be some son of a Lord from the Iron Hills afraid he would be used for ransom. Vili would have told him that it was useless, that the Orcs knew who each and every one of them was down to their lineage.

He found himself keeping a close eye on the boy, though never actually getting close enough to strike up a conversation with him or fall into his gaze. He watched though, watched as he held a pick axe uselessly in his hand for what was quite clearly the first time, and how it became more and more obvious as time went on that he had never even been in a mine before. Definitely the son of some two-bit Lord then, though he wasn't as full of airs and graces as those he had met before, and he had had his fair share of Royalty in the past.

Shaking his once golden hair, now black with soot and dust, from his eyes Vili continued to hack at the unforgiving stone in front of him, it was always best not to dwell on those particular memories if he could help it.

Suddenly a loud cry went up from further down the passageway, and Vili looked up to see that the boy had gotten into a fist fight with Brenia one of the older Dwarves down here in the mines. He wasn't sure what had been said or what had set them off at each other, but he did know that they didn't want the guards to see what was happening. Dropping his pick axe, he strode over to where they were fighting and without a single word grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic and began dragging him away from the old warrior.

"Shut up boy and come with me," he hissed, feeling the fight go out of the slender body immediately. "What in Mahal's name did you say to Brenia that got him in such a foul mood?"

"He called me an elf," came the sullen answer, and Vili pushed him into one of the sleeping alcoves and followed him in.

"He did what?" he demanded, ripping a piece of bedding off the pallet and holding it to the boys bleeding nose.

"Called me an elf."

Not this insanity again.

"Do you mean to tell me that that old fight is still going on?" he demanded. "I had hoped that in the past seven decades we Dwarves might have gotten over that old resentment."

The boy shook his head, dark strands of hair falling into his eyes. "In that respect nothing has changed. My Uncle would kill them all on sight if it wouldn't cause a diplomatic mess."

Vili snorted in amusement at that. "Yes well I know a few stubborn ones like that as well."

There was that smile again, the one which lit up his entire face and for some reason reminded him of his beloved Dis. Lifting the rag from the boy's face he was pleased to see the bleeding had stopped.

"Now git gone," he said, pointing over his shoulder back out to the mines. "And no more fight alright?"

The boy gave him another cheeky grin and then scuttled out of the alcove leaving Vili feeling like he had just come up against a force of nature itself.


	12. The White Council

Cirdan the Shipwright had been a part of the White Council since the early First Age, yet he had never been called to Rivendell under such dire circumstances. He smoothed down his long blonde beard with one hand, whilst the other tapped his fingers against the polished white wood of the meeting table. Elrond's two boys were standing at the back of the room, their eyes full of curiosity as they stared at him unabashedly.

He knew that he tended to cause a scene whenever he left Mithlond and ventured into the heart of Middle Earth. There were very few who had seen an Elf with a beard, let alone one with the breadth and musculature that he himself possessed.

"Ah my friend." Cirdan turned as Elrond entered the room, his long cape floating out behind him and a smile on his fair face. "I am glad you could make it."

"The White Council was called," he answered, standing and accepting Elrond's kiss of greeting. "And so I came."

With that Elrond held out his arm and gestured for somebody behind him to come forward. There was a shuffling noise and a Hobbit, a Halfling, walked into the Meeting Room. Cirdan was familiar with these little creatures, the Grey Havens were close to The Shire, and Hobbits would often come to the coast for summer holidays. This particular one looked to be in his early middle age, with a shock of curly golden hair and sad looking brown eyes. All in all he was a picture of dejection and radiating heartbreak on every level, something which Cirdan was well versed in.

"And who is this?" he asked, smiling kindly at the Hobbit.

"Bilbo," he answered. "Bilbo Baggins my Lord."

Baggins, well that was a common name amongst the Halflings and if he wasn't wrong this particular one was part Took, a family line he was very fond of.

"You seem sad Mister Baggins," he said, pulling out one of the chairs for Bilbo to sit down.

"I am … fine," he answered, though he looked at the table as he said it.

There was definitely a story of lost love in this Hobbit's recent past, and Cirdan was sure that he would help him through it someway.

It didn't take long for the rest of the Council to arrive, Mithrandir and Curunir sitting across from each other at the table and glancing dark looks in each other's direction. Galadriel as per usual was stood at the window, her white sheer dress swirling elegantly around her ankles, she reminded him so much of his beloved that it made his heart ache in loss.

"Why do you call us here Gandalf?" demanded Curunir, his arms folded across his chest. "It had better not be this foolishness about the Ring of Power again."

Mithrandir scowled at that. "The Ring of Power has been found."

At that Cirdan sat straighter in his chair and immediately began spinning Narya around his ring finger, a nervous tick he had picked up from Gil-galad many millennia ago.

"And what has become of it?" he asked.

"Bilbo is the Ring bearer," said Galadriel, from where she had remained silent so far.

"Bilbo," said Elrond, placing his hand on the table. "Please show us the Ring."

The Hobbit nodded though it took quite some time until he finally removed the small band of gold from his pocket, and his eyes shifted anxiously around all those gathered before he placed it on the table. Immediately Cirdan knew that what Mithrandir spoke was the truth, and that this was the Ring of Power and it was something that he hadn't seen since the last Age when Isilduir had been inside that cursed mountain.

"Sauron will surely come for this," said Curunir. "It is not safe here Lord Elrond."

"He has already sent Orcs and a Nazgul to The Shire to reclaim it," answered Mithrandir. "However his Eye and thoughts rest elsewhere."

"And where would that be?" demanded Curunir.

"In Erebor," answered Galadriel, slowly walking towards the table but ignoring the Ring altogether. "And with the Arkenstone."

Ah, thought Cirdan, he has discovered what that gem truly is then.

"Why?" asked Bilbo, looking around at them with a confused look on his face. "What is so special about the Arkenstone?"

"The Arkenstone may be called the heart of the mountain to the Dwarves, but to us Elves and the Maiar it is known as Aule's heart," answered Elrond, smiling kindly at Bilbo. "It is what he gifted Yavanna when she agreed to be his betrothed."

"What it is my dear Hobbit," said Cirdan, looking down on the small creature at his side. "Is the very power of a Vala, he gave his beloved his very strength within that stone as a symbol of his love. Then he gave it to the Dwarves, his most favourite of children to keep safe in his absence."

"Oh," answered Bilbo, wringing his hands together. "Is that why …"

Here his voice trailed off and his eyes filled with tears.

"Yes," answered Mithrandir. "The gold sickness, the curse of Durin's line, though I am sure that Aule was not aware that it would have this affect when he gave it to them."

Bilbo nodded.

"So what must be done?" he asked.

Cirdan caught Galadriel's eye and she nodded and gave him a half smile.

"The Ring must be destroyed," he answered, placing a gentle hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. "Sauron must not get his hands on the Arkenstone, all of that power must not be released upon this world or all will be destroyed."

"How do we destroy it?" asked Bilbo.

"It must be tossed into the fires in whence it was made," said Elrond. "The fires of Mount Doom in the darkness of Mordor, its destruction will cause Sauron to be exiled from these lands and his reach to be diminished."

"Very well," answered Bilbo, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. "How do I get to Mordor?"


	13. Letters from the Lonely Mountain

Primula Brandybuck, soon to be Baggins, felt like she had been scrubbing black blood out of the huge rug that sat before the study fire of Bag End for the past month since Bilbo had disappeared. The Orc bodies had long since been removed and burnt, yet she wanted all traces of the horrid things gone by the time Bilbo came home. And he _was_ coming home and she didn't care what the other Brandybuck's were saying about him having been eaten or killed and dragged away, she knew that he was alive and would be returning to The Shire. She had always adored him, sure that she would marry him one day despite him being her cousin on her mother's side, well that was until Drogo had made himself known anyway.

"Might as well throw it out Prim." The voice made her groan and roll her eyes at the poor rug, she had hoped for a day of peace. "You'll never get rid of that awful stuff."

"Thank you for your advice Lobelia," she answered, continuing to scrub at the rug. "But I think Bilbo would prefer to have everything just the way it was before."

Lobelia snorted at that, and Primula watched from the corner of her eye as she walked around the rug towards Bilbo's desk.

"He's not coming back," she said, shaking her long curly hair behind her shoulder. "Don't be daft."

"I am not being daft." She sat back on her knees, and bunched her fists into her waist when she saw that Lobelia was going through the papers on the desk. "And leave his things alone you wrench."

Lobelia merely huffed and continued to rifle through the papers. "Just because you're marrying Drogo doesn't mean you're the mistress of Bag End."

"And you are just jealous that Otho won't give you the time of day," answered Primula, standing up and coming to Lobelia's side. "What are you looking at?"

She was holding an envelope with a bright red seal in one hand, though it bore no name nor address, and in her other had was held a piece of parchment with writing of fine penmanship upon it. On the edge of the parchment were watermarks, as though Bilbo had been crying when he was reading it and immediately her heart clenched in sympathy for him.

"It's a love letter … of sorts," answered Lobelia. "Though a cave Troll could probably write one with more emotion."

A love letter? For Bilbo? It seemed entirely unlikely but then Lobelia wasn't one for lying despite all her flaws.

"Whose it from?" she asked, trying to read it over the taller woman's shoulder.

"Somebody who called himself King Under the Mountain," Lobelia sniffed, handing the letter to her. "Whatever that means."

"I suppose it means he's the King under some mountain or other," she answered, and then began to read the letter.

_My Dearest Bilbo _[it read]

_It has been two years hence since you left my side, and I have ached for you every day since our parting. I know not why you haven't replied to any of my letters and I can only hope that you are alive and well in your little Hobbit Hole, though I wish that you would let me know of your well-being. If I could have left this blasted mountain to come and return you home I would have done, however Balin informs me that this is impossible as my reign is tumultuous at best. _

_My Nephew's wish for me to inform you that they are betrothed, to each other no less, and they refuse to be wed until you are there for the wedding. So you see you must come back for the good of our people._

_Please reply _

_Yours forever._

_Thorin II_

_King Under the Mountain._

Lobelia was correct in saying that it wasn't the most romantic of letters that had ever been penned, though clearly it had been heartfelt and Primula couldn't fault the writer in that.

"Yes but which mountain?" demanded Lobelia. "The nearest Mountains are the Ered Luin and I doubt they have a King."

Nodding absently, Primula was placing the letter back on the desk when something underneath the heaping papers caught her eye. It was a picture frame, one without glass, and she quickly dug it out. In the frame was a piece of frayed and stained parchment, and on it was a picture of a mountain with a large red dragon drawn above. Surrounding the picture were runes, Khuzdul she guessed, and then in Westron was written …

"The lonely mountain," she said, tracing the writing with her finger. "I wonder if that's the mountain?"

"More than likely," answered Lobelia, she grabbed one of the maps Bilbo kept beside his desk. "Wonder where it is?"

They poured over the map, unable to find anything that looked like it could even resemble the lonely mountain to the west of the Misty Mountains. However something to the far North-East caught Primula's eye, and she leaned closer to get a look.

"Erebor," she read, nudging Lobelia with her elbow. "I wonder if that could be it."

"Probably," answered Lobelia with a nod. "That a Dwarvish Kingdom, and its well known that Bilbo went running off with Dwarves."

Well that settled it then, either Bilbo had run back to his King in this Erebor or he had been taken by Orcs, if it was the latter who better than a Dwarf King to find and rescue him. Almost as if Bilbo was the heroine in one of Ruby Bolger's stories.

"Well lets go then," she said, smiling at Lobelia's wide eyed stare.

"Go where?" she hissed, hands on hips. "You can't mean Erebor surely?"

"Of course I mean Erebor," answered Primula. "Someone needs to tell this King Under the Mountain that Bilbo is missing."

"Send a letter," said Lobelia. "You'll never survive the journey."

"We … since you're coming with me." Primula patted her friend on the shoulder. "And of course we'll survive."


	14. Mothers and Braids

Fili had never been any good at doing his own braids, his mother had done them when he was a Dwarfling and then Kili, when his little fingers had enough strength in them. Since Kili had disappear their mother was once again doing the braids in his hair however the ones in his beard, which only his beloved was allowed to touch, were looking dowdy and loose. A lesser Dwarf than he would probably remove them and just comb their beard straight, Fili however refused to give up on Kili that easily.

He had wanted to chase down those Orcs and get his brother and betrothed back, however Uncle had insisted that he remain safely in Erebor and that he not lose both his heirs in such a way. It hurt his heart to admit it, but Thorin was right ultimately the future of Erebor was more important, plus his Uncle was sacrificing so much to try and get Kili.

"Stop moving your head." His mother's strong hands gripped both sides of his head and held it steady. "Or your braids are going to be uneven."

He found himself frowning at that. "Nobody is going to care if I have uneven braids mother."

She tugged on one of his braids, and he hissed as it pulled against his scalp.

"Your Uncle will care," she answered, finishing one braid and starting on another. "And so should you."

Once again she was right, it was open court today which was something which Thorin had been putting off since Kili disappeared. However he could only stop it for too long, the everyday running of Erebor had to continue even now, they were to recently reclaimed to alienate the Dwarves who were still flowing in from Ered Luin and the other places that had been settled.

"Kili never cared," he muttered, and he heard his mother chuckle from behind him.

"Your brother never wore a single braid in his hair until that blasted battle," she said. "Then again he was waiting for you to place a betrothal braid in that unruly thatch he calls hair."

Fili couldn't help laughing at that, Kili's hair was unruly at best and had a way of becoming knotted and twisted. It also looked incredible spread out across his pillow after they had made love and Kili was telling him dirty jokes. Those memories made him have to swallow around the lump in his throat.

"I miss him Arda," he whispered, just as the last braid was being finished.

"I know you do," she answered, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. "You will never ever stop missing him."


	15. Wisp

**I know I haven't added any authors notes til now, but I just wanted to think the many many people who have read this story. And to give special thanks to the person who has been reviewing and those who are following this fic. **

**There is a lot more to come.**

"Do not follow the lights." Legolas placed a hand on Gimli's shoulder, holding the young Dwarf back. "They lead travellers to their deaths."

Gimli found himself looking up at the Elf in horror, before turning back to look at the small wisps of blue light darting through the trees. He had noticed them far off in the distance for a few days now, though it seemed like they had caught up with them at last.

"What are they?" he demanded, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder and hefting his axe into both hands. "And can they be killed?"

Shaking his head, Legolas pushed the axe down and Gimli grunted at him angrily, damn Elf trying to stop him being able to defend himself. There was no wonder his kinsmen didn't trust the disturbingly good looking creatures as far as they could throw them.

"No Elf has ever tried," answered Legolas. "Or as far as I know none have anyway."

That didn't mean anything to Gimli, just because an Elf hadn't been able to shoot one of these things with one of their particularly poncy arrows didn't mean that a good Dwarvish axe wouldn't do the job.

"Well let's see then." Gimli began to stride forwards to where the nearest wisp of light was floating above the path.

"No!" Legolas's voice was not just demanding but also tinged with panic, and it was that which made him halt and turn back to his companion. "Please do not."

Gimli scowled at him. "Don't fear Master Elf." He patted his axe fondly. "I'll just do away with 'em and then we can continue on."

"Please." Legolas reached out a hand as if to grab him. "Please do not, or you shall surely die."

Rolling his eyes Gimli approached his companion. "Is this some Elf superstition."

"My father told me." Legolas paused and closed his eyes as if in great pain. "He told me that this was how my mother died."

"Well that's odd," answered Gimli, glancing back at the happily dancing wisps.

"What?" asked Legolas, gripping his forearm tightly.

"Well it's been passed down from Durin himself," he said, with a shrug. "That Thrandiul carried and bore you himself."

Legolas's pale grey eyes widened in shock.

"This isn't somethin' you've heard before?" asked Gimli.

"Well no," answered Legolas. "I don't think anyone would dare say such a thing against my father."

Well the lad did have a point there, the Elf King was a particularly terrifying seeming creature, and if the stories his father and uncle had told him were true he was dangerous as well. He could easily imagine that Elf heads would roll if anyone started gossiping about him.

"Well either way we have to get passed these things," answered Gimli. "So what do you suggest?"

He watched as Legolas looked all around them, his gaze finally settling on the nearest tree. "We could climb over them."

"No." Gimli shook his head. "I will not be climbing any trees."

"And why not?" demanded the Elf. "It seems our only way through at this point."

Gimli would not accept that, ever, he was not climbing up some tree and humiliating himself in front of the Prince of Mirkwood, though he supposed they should really be called it Greenwood again.

"There has to be another way," he said, standing firm before the lithe Elf.

"There is not," answered Legolas. "Now get up that tree."

Gimli had just opened his mouth to argue that he was not getting up that tree and his Elf companion needed to keep his knickers on, when a high pitched scream went up through the trees, and as one the wisps flickered out.

"What was that?" asked Gimli, noticing that Legolas almost looked sickly. "What is it laddie?"

"Nazgul," whispered Legolas, pushing him towards the tree. "Get up now."

"Nazgul?" answered Gimli, starting to climb despite himself. "Do you mean a Ringwraith?"

"Yes," hissed Legolas, pushing Gimli up further before swinging himself into the tree. "Now be quiet."

Together they crouched amongst the branches of the tree, and for a very long time nothing seemed to happen at all. Then, just as Gimli was about to climb back down from the tree and continue down the path, there was the sound of hooves on the compact ground which made up the path. Immediately Legolas's hand covered his and gripped tight, and don't tell his kin but he found himself gripping back just as fiercely. This could very easily be his last moments in this world before passing to the halls of his ancestors, and he would not leave with hateful thoughts in his head.

A huge black horse with a black cloaked figure atop it appeared on the path moving swiftly towards the west, so at least he was not travelling to Erebor. Though why would a Ringwraith be travelling to the kindly west? It soon disappeared amongst the trees and slowly the forest came back to life around them.

"Come," whispered Legolas. "We must keep moving if we have any hope of reaching the Elvish outpost before nightfall."

"The oddest thing," answered Gimli. "I don't much feel like getting out of this tree."

Legolas squeezed his hand. "Do not fear, for I will not let you fall."


	16. Musings of a King

Thorin often found nights in Erebor cold and lonely, something which he once would never have dared to think about his Grandfathers lost Kingdom. However in the solitude of his private apartments, while sifting through paperwork at his father's old desk he often found the loneliness weighing down on him, as if the very mountain itself felt alone. Oh how he missed Bilbo at these times, he could almost imagine the Hobbit sitting in the large armchair by the marble fireplace with the flames lighting his hair whilst he read a book of flowery Elvish poetry. He would give everything, each and every piece of gold in the treasury if he had to, to make that image become real. It was a dream though and nothing else, for Bilbo would never be able to forgive him, and rightly so.

He had written so many letters over the years, one every month in fact, with Coac. Some had been returned unopened, some returned opened, some not returned, and the latest one had simply had _Please leave me alone_ written on the back of it in Bilbo's neat writing. That had been the one which had shattered what little had been left of his heart, and turned that particular organ into ice. It wasn't fair on Faramir that he was going to be stuck with a husband who was never going to love him, who no longer had the ability to love. Sure he was in love with his brother, something which he had witnessed personally with his nephews, but from what Thorin understood Boromir was already married with at least one son. It seemed that the youngest son of Denethor didn't have a loving future really with anyone, and that was a tragedy.

Faramir had left earlier that day, riding for Rivendell with Dwalin and Balin so as to put Erebor's point forward when it came to Mordor. He himself would have gone if it his rule wasn't so fragile after all he had no issues with Dis taking the throne in his absence, Fili was not mentally able right now with Kili still missing, but there were many who thought him weak and wanted his cousin Dain there instead. He was not leaving his sister and heir vulnerable whilst he went traipsing halfway across Middle Earth. No he needed to be here for his family.

His family. That included Kili, his second sister-son and the love of his heir. Even though he had crowned Fili as Prince, it was well known that Kili was his favourite, after all who couldn't fall in love with the tenacious little Dwarfling? He had always been so brave and mischievous despite his relatively sheltered upbringing, wanting to chase after his uncle and older brother whenever they went hunting. Fili hadn't been able to resist him since the day Kili had been placed in his arms as a wiggling newborn, and Thorin had had the pleasure of watching their relationship blossom. They had been inseparable since Kili had been able to toddle, and seeing his eldest nephew in such a state of depression made him want to smash things in grief. Fili was lost, completely and utterly lost, and it was starting to get the whole of Erebor down.

Putting his elbows on the desk, Thorin let his head rest in his hands and gave several deep breaths. It was all too much really, his Grandfather had never had to put up with any of this during his reign. Oh sure there had been that whole issue with the gold sickness, and then the dragon, and of course being decapitated by Azog … but to watch the slow demise of someone he held so dear, it's enough to drive a Dwarf to madness.

They had to find Kili and bring him home, there was just no other option.


	17. Prince in the Darkness

There was a Prince beneath the Mountains of Shadow, or at least that's what the rumours said, not that this was new to Vili. There had been a Prince in these mines for nigh on seventy eight years, not that many knew about it, after all Frerin son of Thrain was assumed dead when Smaug took Erebor. It was only Vili who knew that the young Prince had been planning on running as far as possible when the mountain had been lost, having known that there was something terribly wrong with Thror, however when he discovered the plot to take back Moria he had not been able to leave his brother to die. Vili could not fault him for that.

"It has to be the new arrival," said Vili, poking half-heartedly at his piece of bread. "Since nobody has recognized you yet, especially with the beard."

Frerin grinned at that and stroked his long black beard. "It is magnificent isn't it?"

Rolling his eyes Vili took a bite of his bread. "Yes, all the Dwarrowdams will be all over you when we get out of this place."

That seemed to content the Prince, and he tucked into his own meal with vigour. "But if he's a Prince that begs the question. Prince of where exactly?"

Frerin shrugged. "Iron Hills?"

"But Dain doesn't have a wife," answered Vili. "Nor does the lad look anything like him."

"Aye," answered Frerin. "He looks more like a Durin than Dain could ever hope to be."

There was that. The boy had the dark features of a Durin that was for sure, and even his slow growing beard was a trait of that particular line. So a Durin, well there was only one left in that direct lineage …

"So Thorin had a son then?" he mused, glancing up at where the boy was happily eating the last of his gruel and laughing at the frankly filthy jokes Karo was telling. "I suppose he'd have been able to charm one of the widowers."

Frerin all but snorted his gruel out of his nose at that. "No. No I don't think so."

"What?" demanded Vili. "Why? Don't you think that your brother would be able to find a suitable mate?"

"Of course I think he could find a suitable mate," answered Frerin, pointing his spoon at Vili. "Just he ain't attracted to Dwarrowdams is all."

That seemed usual to Vili, he had only ever loved and found the form of one appealing and that had been Frerin's sister Dis. And while he didn't expect Thorin to mate with his sister, even though it wasn't unheard of, he couldn't imagine anyone not wanting the rangy figure of Dwarrowdam in their bed nor heart.

"Don't tell me …" He swallowed thickly. " … that he likes human women?"

"Oh for Mahal's sake!" exclaimed Frerin. "He fucks men!"

He spoke so loud that his voice echoed around the chamber, and all the Dwarves therein went silent and stared at them. Suddenly, within the awkward silence, there was the sound of a single loud guffaw and as they watched the boy toppled backwards off the rock he had been sitting on in peals of laughter. It was as if this released a flood of tension and immediately the other Dwarves started chuckling and smacking each other on the back in good hearted cheer. This was something that Vili hadn't seen in a very long time, and he found that he wanted to get to know this youngling who could make these battle hardened old slaves laugh.

"I'm going to ask him," he said, standing up amongst the laughter.

"Just leave it alone," said Frerin, reaching up to grab his wrist. "If he wishes to have his privacy then we should grant it."

Vili simply should off his grasp and headed towards where the lad was righting himself back onto his rock, he just had to know who he was.

" 'ello," he said, as Vili approached. "You and your friend know how to cause a scene."

"Not as much as you," answered Vili, shuffling aside when Frerin joined them. "Princeling."

That caused him to sit up straight and glance around, though there where none close enough to hear their conversation.

"How did you know?" he hissed.

"There are rumours that there is a Prince in our midst." Vili glanced sideways at Frerin. "Well another one."

The boy's eyes widened at that and he started at Frerin in shock.

"And it's not hard to pick a Durin out of a crowd." Frerin shrugged and stroked his beard. "I should know."

"Frerin shut it," said Vili, nudging the other Dwarf.

"Frerin," said the boy wealky. "You're Frerin, as in Frerin from Erebor?"

"Aye," he answered.

"And that leaves the question lad," said Vili. "Who exactly are you?"

He looked between the two of them, and then twisted his betrothal braid around his index finger. "Kili … Kili son of Vili at your service."


End file.
